


lord don't like it, but the devil don't mind

by hunted



Category: True Detective
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Alternate Universe - Trans, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Romance, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Policework Nastiness, Closeted Character, Closeted Character(s), Coming Untouched, Cute, Depression, Domestic, Dry Humping, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Gay Trans Man, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hate Crimes, Healing, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Transphobia, Love, M/M, Male Bonding, Masculine Trans Man, Masculinity, Mentions of Transphobic Violence, Moving In Together, Name-Calling, Nihilism, Non-Aggressive Misgendering of a Mentioned Character, Not Beta Read, Outdated Transgender Terms, Past Abuse (Brief Mentions), Period-Typical Trans Communities, Police, Reunions, Romance, Stealth Trans Man, Suicide (Brief Mention), Top Trans Man, Trans Male Character, Trans Rust (True Detective), Transphobia, and i have precisely zero regrets, soft happy idiots who figure out that men can love men, this story is becoming a heart-wrenching tale of gay love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22333753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunted/pseuds/hunted
Summary: The first time they came together, it was late, twilight azure bleeding into obsidian midnight....A trans!Rust AU, written by a trans male author. No feminising language is used to describe him, and he remains similar to canon. Title taken fromthis song.
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Comments: 30
Kudos: 25





	1. dunk me in the river, gonna clean my sin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hieroglyphics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/gifts), [i_amthatis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_amthatis/gifts).



> _Hello! It has been a long time since I wrote for the True Detective fandom! Since then I've come out as a transgender man, accepted my truth, and redefined myself. I have a beard and a deep voice, and I'm very settled. Living as a man is really, truly amazing. I rewatched True Detective recently, and I thought it would be interesting to re-imagine Rust as a man not unlike myself, and it was shockingly easy... There's a lot to be said for pre-transition depression inspiring deep fanfiction, I guess, lol. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading!!_  
> .  
> .  
>  _All the warnings are tagged. The story starts out somewhat depressing and heavy, but it's a romance disguised with a thin layer of angst, I promise you. Hang in there 'till the end, but do take note of all the tags, particularly the fact that a hate crime is briefly mentioned._  
> .  
> .  
>  _I'm an Australian, and the fires are still posing a pretty severe threat to my life and home, so if there are any spelling mistakes... Please forgive them, lmao. I'm very stressed at present._

Rust lived like he was the inhabitant of a fucking Francis Bacon painting, all twisted up inside, the kind of violently distorted soul that would always be alone. A ghost that carried with him mountains of corpses, mind warped beyond salvation, a sculpted face turned emancipated by cigarettes and sleepless nights. He was surrounded by absence and emptiness, his home an off-white cave populated only by cardboard boxes and enough furniture to uphold the most basic impression of functionality. The mournful setting was reminiscent of a gay man’s furious brushstrokes, as violent and despondent as the lashes of a whip against his tender skin by a father’s hand, shaping a world that screamed. Not just the faces, though art critics would someday focus on them as his defining motif. No, it was the whole world that was broken. And Rust, in his fog of alcohol, lived the silent embodiment those very screams, surrounded by that fractured world; a handsome masochist that Francis would have so adored. The sharpness of his movements, the violence in his very soul, the hopeless desire to find something softer.

Because, at the very end, that was what he sought.

Softness.

Once, Rust had sought something else. And he’d gotten it. He’d gotten to be a man, married to a beautiful woman, his child so starry-eyed and innocent in his arms. His body had been his own, a temple so lovingly tended to, adored by his wife and respected by his father.

He didn’t think about those days, now. Everything had broken, shattered, slid sideways into obscurity, all of his desires and dreams obliterated by the loss of family. His whole life had been about becoming a man, and the final nail in his creaking coffin was the knowledge that life wasn’t a fairy tale. The magic disappeared in a puff of smoke. There were people out there who understood that part of him, who walked the earth as defective as he had been born, who had made something of themselves despite the shit fucking deal they’d been gifted, courtesy of the big man upstairs. But they’d never seen a dead body. They’d never seen what happens to corpses after four days in the hot sun, leaking juices and swarming with flies, faces chewed half-off by street dogs. They'd never seen the stuff that Rust considered commonplace, normal, average, _boring._

Rustin Cohle was two different people. Torn between two communities that were both equally disgusted by him, one disappointed by his choice of career and the associated class betrayal, the other embodying a promise of serious violence should his _biology_ be discovered. He was a cop and a transsexual. Too blue for his trans brothers, too trans for the pigs. That made for a pretty fucked life. Advantageously, though, he was just hurried towards the inevitable conclusion that awaited every single human being on this planet; nobody gave a fuck. Not his father, not his deadbeat mother, not his cop buddies, not the people he worked to save. He didn’t fit anywhere, and nobody wanted him.

He was alone.

It was better that way.

This particular morning, as he often did, he awoke already contemplating the emptiness of the day that awaited him. That was the thing about Rust. His brain was a cavernous space, where emotion was concerned. Nothing stuck to him.

He sat up, lit a cigarette. Face ducked toward the flame, lips pressed against fragile paper, hand cupped around the lighter. He took a deep drag, relished the taste and the spark. The only real thing that mattered. Fucking nicotine.

He threw his lighter aside. When he had heaved himself up off the mattress, the sheet had fallen from his willowy chest, bunching in his lap. He was whip thin and lithe, still muscular despite the substances he snorted, injected, and swallowed. With a curl of hair gracing his brow, and a jawline to make both the ladies and the fellas swoon, he was cursed with good looks alongside absolute decimation of his life and body. Heavy eyes, sloped lids, and a wide mouth. Clever hands. Nobody really cared to know how he was doing because they were all too busy wishing they looked like him. They didn’t know what the scars on his chest meant, the puckered marks around his nipples, the fight he’d had to win before he could look like this. They didn’t know about the sting of needles below his skin, the rush of Testosterone that three shrinks and a doctor had approved. Rust knew that every single one of his fucking useless co-workers would’ve killed themselves rather than fight the way he did. Very few people made it. He had that to be proud of, if he could be fucked bothering with pride.

He glanced to the side of his mattress, where a glass was upturned, knocked on its side by his fumbling stagger to bed the night before. A pile of photographs sat beside the glass, narrowly avoiding being soaked by the puddle of whiskey that he hadn’t managed to force down his throat before passing out.

“Fuckin’ sentiment,” he muttered around his cigarette, reaching over to pick them up. He didn’t look at this shit, as a rule, because he preferred to pretend he had no emotions.

The whole apathy act was bullshit, and he knew it. But a man had to stay sane.

The first photograph was of a cheery gentleman with round cheeks. He was sitting on a bed with his legs crossed, hands folded, fingers intertwined. Sunshine painted him with a pretty halo, locks of chestnut hair turned brilliant by the light, a moment in time forever captured. Rust had kept this photograph for years. The guy had been named Lou. He’d recently died, a passing that had gone unnoticed by everyone around Rust.

He’d hoped they might be able to meet, or at the very least, he could someday gain the courage to approach the community he shunned. Maybe he should quit his job. Take that early pension offer and abandon this penance bullshit. Nobody wanted him working as a cop, that was for damn sure. His partners always hated him, his bosses wanted to punch him, the witnesses he spoke to shrunk beneath his gaze and wilted in his interrogation rooms.

But he helped. He saved lives.

He dropped the photo down, picking up a newspaper clipping he’d kept despite his better judgement. There was another young man who was starting to circulate where Lou had once stood, a bolder and more confident voice, more certain of himself with a generation of older men at his back. The ones who hadn’t been killed by AIDS, anyway. His name was Jamison, and the newspaper ink that shaped his face was blotched. Rust felt close to him, anyway. He imagined what Jamison was doing right now. Who he was waking up next to. Was he fucking miserable, too? Were they all like this? Broken? Cold? Was he sipping on bitter coffee as a pretty lady moved about his kitchen? Rust knew that Jamison had a kid and an ex-wife. Was he as fucked-up about loss as Rust was? Had he moved on?

Rust had a drag of his cigarette and replaced the clipping on his floor, deciding not to look at it anymore, because he knew the answer. His stomach growled and he ignored it, stumbling up out of bed like a puppet with loose strings, hips and shoulders canted at a slouched angle.

He knew there was a better way to live.

And he didn’t want to be reminded.

***

He rolled into work as lethargic and hungry as he’d woken, long and lean like a starved dog, unblinking eyes moving fluidly over the hateful faces that watched him. They didn’t want him here, but it was cool. The feeling was mutual.

Rust sat down at his desk, knees bending languidly. He didn’t quite fit on his chair, so he slumped half-off it, flipping through papers and forcing his eyes to focus on blurred lines describing some of the worst crimes a person could imagine.

“You look like shit.”

Rust turned his face upward, neck craning, eyes hooded. His newest partner, a peppy bastard who liked to have his pussy and eat it too, gazed down at him. He had blond hair and a brutishly handsome face, eyes bright as church windows, light filtering cleanly through irises that could only belong to a guiltless man. He was the kind that did as he pleased and pushed the blame away. Nothing stuck to him.

He also liked to state the bleeding bloody obvious.

“I look like shit, huh,” Rust murmured, “’Least I slept in my own bed last night.”

He waited for a reaction, but the guy just smiled, broad and gleeful like he appreciated the jab.

“You’re a surly fucker aren’t you,” he declared happily, “Let’s go get some food.”

“Nah.”

“Ain’t a fuckin’ request. C’mon.”

The words should’ve sounded like an order, the authoritative bark of a co-worker who was about to drive him to the middle of nowhere and beat some sense into him, but there was an undercurrent of affection in his voice, one that surprised Rust. He didn’t sound like his usual bully self, in that moment. The comparison that sprung to mind was the gruff, awkward stoicism with which Rust’s father had accepted the death of his daughter and the emergence of his son. Affection masked by insults. The language of men who had never been shown love by their fathers.

Rust rose to his feet and followed his partner out of the building. At least they were speaking a language he understood.

***

They went to a sun-drenched roadside diner. A waitress with a lined face and a hard smile served them fries and burgers, yellow cheese melting atop thick, juicy patties, framed by seeded buns. Rust’s stomach seemed to writhe and twist, his skin aflame with the familiar dryness of dehydration and a hangover, midday heat pounding down against him. A warbling country song was playing, warmed by static, George Strait lamenting the loss of some great love in mournful tones.

“Eat,” Marty told him.

Rust picked up a single fry and munched on it, looking off to the side of Marty’s face. Marty snorted, seeming unimpressed. The sky overhead was a mellow, endless blue. The cop’s eyes were brighter than that sky, shining like precious stones, pale to the point of being shocking. Rust couldn’t quite look away from him, though he tried.

“Fine, be a dramatic prick. Suit yourself. _I’m_ ,” he held his burger up, “gonna enjoy my lunch regardless.”

“You sure seem proud of yourself,” Rust countered calmly.

“Yeah, and you sure seem like an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one, ain’t that the sayin’?”

“Guess it is,” Marty scoffed through a mouthful of processed meat and bread, “I’m under no illusions ‘bout what I am.”

“The fuck you bring me out here for?”

“Straight to the point, huh?”

Rust watched him blankly. Marty chewed, staring back unflinchingly. Birds chirped and trilled, insects screeching, the sounds of a relentless summer flavouring their silence. Rust didn’t know what he saw in Marty’s face. He couldn’t place it.

Marty nodded slowly to himself, like he was coming to some kind of conclusion. He placed his burger down with enough deliberate thought that scorn perched itself, precariously, on Rust’s tongue. The taste of hesitation wasn’t familiar. He didn’t usually hold back, but Marty was a curiosity. This smarmy motherfucker, who wore suit shirts tucked into his belt, fabric hugging the frame of his body, accentuating the shape of his waist. Rust was unusually taken with his arrogant beauty.

“Caught a case a while back, when I was still new to the job,” Marty said, licking at his teeth, folding his hands on the table. Now it was his turn to look to the side, avoiding eye contact. “Fella on the roadside… got into some trouble. ‘Cept… He wasn’t a fella. He… She… Well, fuck, she, I guess. Yeah. She. Wearin’ a dress n’ all. Couple guys, they didn’t take kindly to that. I found her… afterwards. Got her cleaned up, tracked down the attackers. Charged ‘em. Took a bit to get the sheriff on board, but I thought it was important. God knows the station took issue with me givin’ a shit, but…”

His voice trailed off. There was a haunted, ancient look in his eyes. The look that all cops got. Rust had misjudged him, then. He wasn’t just a bully with a badge. He was a _seasoned_ bully, who directed his punches where they were needed most. Anxiety, hot and visceral, began to pump through his veins. He didn’t flinch from his seat, didn’t let it show on his face, but the beginnings of a memory were surfacing in his mind’s eye. A hot summer day, just like this one. Years ago. When Rust had been a different person. He’d still been suffocating himself with bandages, ribcage creaking and aching, two shirts layered over a secret he couldn’t escape. The poor woman’s name had been Lola. Rust had held her like she was his own sweetheart.

“When I took her home…” Marty inhaled slowly, licking at his lips, rubbing his thumb against a knuckle of his other hand. “It was a, sorta… community hangout. For folks like him- her. Her. People like… that. When I arrived…”

Rust’s face was unmoving and cold, like a statue, but inside he was panicking. He didn’t need Marty to finish the story. He knew what was coming, and he couldn’t fucking believe he’d missed it. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten Marty, and understood now why those blue eyes had sparked a raw feeling in his gut.

“There was a guy there, when I pulled up…” Marty continued, still not looking at Rust, “Scrawny bastard, brown hair, thin face… Forgot ‘bout him ‘till now. Could see he was like her, but… the opposite. When I saw him take her in his arms, walk her inside, I thought… I thought, shit, that changes everything, y’know? I never had a friend like that. Who gave a damn. And I don’t know fuck-all ‘bout transsexuals, but I really… changed my mind, that day.”

He looked at Rust, then. Gaze tentative and honest, as real an exchange as Rust had ever been a part of. He’d not expected this from Marty, ever. Men didn’t do this. They didn’t open up, sit down and share emotional stories over some food. But Marty’s eyes were pinched with a desperate frown, his brows drawn inward, forehead furrowed. Lips pressed together hard, jaw clenched. He cared. He wanted Rust to know something, wanted Rust to understand. He was gentle in his determination.

“When I saw you walk into the station, all these years later, I thought… Shit. That’s him. And I didn’t know how to fuckin’ say it, didn’t know how to… bring it up.”

Rust wanted to vomit. He felt that he was standing on the precipice of something, either about to plummet off the edge into a violent, yawning chasm from which there would be no escape, or he was about to step safely away from this terrible threat. He couldn’t have his past following him. He’d run so far. He’d been so careful. He couldn’t let this happen again. His stomach heaved, like he was already falling.

“What do you want?”

The question seemed to shock Marty. He sat back in his chair, worried now.

“Nothin’,” he insisted, “I don’t want shit. I just-”

“Why fuckin’ bring it up, then?” Rust demanded, keeping his voice level.

“I wanted you to know, that I-”

“That you, what? Got dirt on me?”

Anger flared in Marty’s eyes. He steadied himself, leaned forward, lowered his voice.

“Look, you surly bastard, I’m not your fuckin’ enemy. I don’t give a shit that you’re a transsexual. If you’re a man then that’s all I need to know, transgendered or not. I don’t give a rat’s fuckin’ ass about what’s between your goddamn legs, and as long as you keep your nose outta my business, I’ll keep mine outta yours. Long as you protect me on the job, long as you’ve got my back, I don’t care. Right?”

Rust waited for the joke. Waited for the other shoe to tumble downward, waited for the steaming pile of shit that always accompanied declarations like these. But Marty’s face was open and honest, the kind of honesty that only ever came from men with brutal convictions. Rust swallowed, felt the lines of his throat tightening and straining.

“Right,” he replied.

“Right,” Marty sighed, sitting back in his chair again like they were done with the matter, “Jesus. Eat your fuckin’ burger, would you? We ain’t got a long lunch break.”

Maybe it was because Rust was stunned, shocked in ways he’d not allowed himself to be for years, or maybe he was just starving; either way, hunger trumped stubbornness, and he picked up the burger. Started eating. Then, once he started, he couldn’t stop.

It tasted good.

***

Time may have been a flat circle, but Rust sure started to experience it as a linear progression.

Before, he’d been marooned in his own misery, dizzily flailing among clippings of poor, school-aged victims, driven by substance abuse, the horror of his job, and the death of his child. And he still indulged, oh yes, he still drunk his whiskey straight and tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he sped down the dual highways of asphalt and opiates, pupils bleeding black into the rings of his irises. Nobody would put him on the cover of those underground trans zines, nobody would be interviewing him anytime soon about the coping mechanisms that made transitioning possible. He wasn’t sure whether this would be considered _living_ by anybody else, and he certainly wasn't an example, but he made it work.

Marty made it work.

Their car rides were places of silent reflection, except they weren’t. Rust would rattle off the same bullshit he’d been spouting for years in the silence of his own home, relishing the company, just glad that a human was listening. Marty would entertain him with fond enthusiasm, and even when he told Rust to _shut the fuck up,_ Rust loved him for it. Because he felt those words settling against him, warm with the kind of love Rust absolutely reciprocated, spoken in ways that Rust could handle being confronted with.

It was a dance. An evolving, natural thing, that felt so organic and inevitable that Rust was as frightened by it as he was entranced. Marty slept around like a devil, overcompensating for _something_ that his graceless co-workers would never have guessed. But Rust knew. He saw the truth, heard it whispered in the clasp of Marty’s handshake, the quirk of his lips when he offered Rust a smile.

Marty's wife was the only other one who saw. She had a weathered, intelligent face. Beautiful beyond her years, and angry like so many cops’ wives were. Rust felt an amount of guilt, but tried to convince himself he’d done nothing wrong. Marty had opened him up, made him raw again. Feelings were a synonym of being a functional man. It wasn't his fault that Maggie had married a homosexual.

The divorce was messy.

***

The first time they came together, it was late, twilight azure bleeding into obsidian midnight. Marty hadn’t drunk anything, which was rare for him, but Rust didn’t question it. Since Marty had been camping out here, there had been a lot of stuff to tiptoe around, and Rust found that the best policy tended to be just not mentioning it. Something had changed lately, he just hadn't wanted to see it too clearly.

Rust had just emerged from the shower. His hair was dripping, plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck, badly in need of a cut. A freshly lit cigarette was perched between his wet lips, moisture streaming down his face and collecting at his chin, dripping down onto his naked chest. He wore only a loose pair of cotton shorts and left wet footprints in his wake, had barely even bothered towelling himself off.

Marty had obviously been heading to use the bathroom himself. He was mid-stride when he froze in place, mouth opening wordlessly, eyes widening. Rust stood still too, watching him with bored interest.

“…The fuck’s up with you?”

Marty’s expression seemed to collapse, his shoulders slumping. Some kind of façade, an act Rust hadn’t even perceived, peeled away before Rust’s very eyes. Marty's spine curved, head ducking downward, expression scrunched in pain, hands jerking upward to hide his distress. He groaned angrily into his palms, frustration muffled.

“Fuck,” he shouted, “Fuck!”

Rust sucked on his cigarette, took it between two fingers and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. He wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but it was certainly entertaining. He didn’t realise the significance of this moment until Marty stepped abruptly forward, lurching past whatever hesitation had been torturing him. Wasn’t that just how life went? Revelations like these were hardly telegraphed in ways that could be recognised in the moment. It was retrospect that would make sense of this. There was no time for theorising now, no time for ethical debates. Rust had been yanked from the stagnation of his own academia and into the real world.

Their mouths slotted together easily, like they’d been meant for each other, like their first kiss should’ve happened so long ago. Marty’s hands were on Rust's face, cupping his jaw, shoulders tense and hunched up high. Rust staggered backward somewhat, unsteady on his feet, unprepared for Marty’s closeness. To his shame, in a moment of utter disbelief, he placed the heel of his hand against Marty’s sternum and pushed him sharply away. His cigarette fell to the floor, leaving a scorch mark before it was extinguished by a puddle of water.

Marty stumbled backwards, breathing hard.

Rust stared at him.

Neither man dared move.

He felt like he should say something. But all the words they could offer wouldn’t encapsulate the look in those brilliant, tear-filled blue eyes.

Rust pulled him close, kissed him back.

The path to the bedroom was messy and chaotic, Marty’s hands groping every available inch of skin, hungry and desperate like a starving man would dive toward a load of bread, like he’d seen the messiah and needed to show his devotion before those trumpets sounded their call. Rust’s back bumped up against doorways and walls, but he didn’t care, couldn’t pretend that wild, crazy excitement wasn’t blooming inside him as it never had before. The touch of a man, of a stubble-rough mouth against his own, of a hard chest and calloused fingers, turned him on. Marty turned him on. But it was about more than sex. It was a word they dared not use, not yet. Not while the moment was so vulnerable and young.

The pace of their touches ground to an immediate halt when Marty fell onto his back, guided down onto the spare bedroom’s mattress by Rust’s hands. They were very aware, then, of each other. Rust laying on top of him, their bodies aligned, touching at every angle, closer than ever before. Marty gave a shivering sigh against Rust's mouth, every sound magnified. Rust eased their faces apart, lifted himself enough that he could meet Marty’s gaze. But Marty looked away. Rust recognised panic when he saw it, and it broke his heart. He gently took Marty's chin between his thumb and forefinger, turned his face upward. Marty looked up at him with frightened, beautiful eyes, framed by pale blond lashes.

Rust grinned. A proper smile, one he’d not shown to anyone for a very, very long time. It felt unnatural, wonderful, and new. To his relief, Marty beamed back at him.

“Hey,” Rust murmured, unable to stop smiling.

“Hey,” Marty whispered in reply, laughing shyly. His breath puffed against Rust’s cheek. Their faces were so close.

Rust leaned down to kiss him again. Softer, this time. More tenderly, so gentle that it almost hurt. The barest brush of their lips, and he could taste all the days they’d spent denying this, pushing it away, the pain of being queer men in a world that wanted them to be anything else.

They kept kissing, touching, exhaling, tasting each other’s air, exploring this new reality. Rust took the lead, pushing up the hem of Marty’s shirt, kissing his belly, tongue sliding over his nipples, painting his skin, savouring him. Marty seemed content with that, tugging off Rust’s shirt and kissing him too, dragging his teeth over a bullet-scarred collarbone, mouthing at Rust like he wanted to leave marks that would never fade. His fingers hesitated against the cotton of Rust’s shorts, a question in his pause.

“Not yet,” Rust told him, breathing the words against Marty’s cheek, “Not today.”

Marty nodded, like he’d expected it. Rust kissed him quickly, letting him know where they stood.

“Someday,” he clarified, “Just not yet.”

“Didn’t wanna assume, truth be told,” Marty admitted, knees framing Rust’s hips, his taut jeans pressing hard against Rust’s groin, “Didn’t wanna upset you.”

Rust gave a quiet laugh, smoothing his palm over Marty’s cheekbone, thumb stroking below Marty’s eye, the most fragile of skin. “You couldn’t ever upset me.”

“I sure do give it my best shot, sometimes.”

“Nah,” Rust insisted, not bothering to hide his sincerity, “You give more of a shit ‘bout me than anybody else ever has.”

Marty blinked uncomprehendingly at that. He’d expected sarcasm, the usual back-and-forth rhythm of their game. But Rust met his eyes straight and didn’t play along, hand dipping down, twisting the button of Marty's jeans free, tugging down his zipper. Marty gasped, cheeks flushed, hips arching upward. The scrape of metal was intimate, significant in ways Rust dared not explain. A frontier they couldn't come back from.

“Rust…”

Rust took him in hand, tugging fabric down and out of the way. It was messy and sudden, Marty clinging to his shoulders, face buried in his neck, whined sounds muffled by sweat-slick skin, Rust running hot and still damp from his shower. He ached for Marty, for the pleasure and pain of their embrace, the quiver of his voice. He spread his legs wider on the bed, angled his hips downward, the small of his bare back curving as he ground his body against the toughness of denim. He would get off, just like this. It was enough, to be this close to Marty, to be the reason for every helpless blip of voice, every strangled cry.

He crushed Marty close in a tight hug, fist pumping him fast, both of them gasping now.

“Rust…” Marty choked, blunt nails digging into the nape of Rust’s neck as he clung on for dear life, “Rust, please, fuck, Rust,”

“I got you,” Rust told him, “I got you, Marty, I got you,”

“Rust…!”

They tumbled off the edge together, and it felt like an inevitable thing, a cascading symphony of flesh and thrusting and moans, slamming to a euphoric halt. The tide of emotion crashed down on Rust, and he was overcome by a vision of himself inside Marty, bowed over him just like this, those legs spread for a cock he could feel. He was floating, loose-limbed and grunting, collapsing down on top of his partner, tremors ebbing and flowing through his every limb.

They didn’t speak for ages. When Rust did look at him, Marty had glassy eyes, wet cheeks, and a broken smile. They kissed, gentler than before.

So carefully navigating their new truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Due to the context of the story, I use the term transsexual, not transgender, because that was the community that many people belonged to before definitions started to change. A transsexual man is a guy, assigned a female gender at birth, who experiences a persistent need to transition into the opposite (male) sex. The phrase "a man born in a woman's body" was appropriate at that time, and tbqh, I still relate to it. A transgender man is a man, assigned a female gender at birth, who identifies as male. The term "transgender" is inclusive of binary and non-binary people, whereas transsexualism was/is a term for binary men and women. The term "transgender **ed** " was also used to describe men and women who had transitioned, though it is outdated now._  
> .  
> .  
>  _Lou Sullivan was a real trans man, and the first American transsexual to fight for the rights of trans men and women to identify as gay and lesbian. He died of AIDS, and gave[interviews](https://youtu.be/SxgZNNX-v2g) before his death, trying to pave the way for future generations of "female-to-gay transsexual men", as he called us. [This](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/0ce792_3cf4793f3a744e5c905c575e641968c0~mv2.jpg) is the photograph I was referencing in the story._  
> .  
> .  
>  _Jamison Green pioneered the FTM community after Lou's death; he is[still alive](https://youtu.be/m3Z7SlZqxpI), and is fighting on behalf of all trans people. He has grown into the transgender community and changed with the times, advocating on behalf of non-binary people too, even though his origins are in the binary transsexual community. I wanted to pepper some trans history through this, because any story set in the past is an opportunity to shine some light on the people who fought the battles we now benefit from!_  
> .  
> .  
>  _For extra insight into the life of a female-to-male transsexual from the South, give the documentary[Southern Comfort](https://youtu.be/IH0L3wlV0hg?t=1218) a watch. For a list of FTM movies and TV shows, with reviews, see [this link](https://transmalepride.wixsite.com/jakesspace/post/ftm-movies-films-and-tv-about-trans-men)._  
> .  
> .  
>  _Every time I post something with masculine FTM men, I get comments remarking on how rare it is that a trans guy is written to be manly instead of feminine and submissive, so I'd like to recommend[this story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21667837) about a gay trans guy and a cis twink. I've written some more hardcore stories too, but I would encourage you to browse my works and read all the tags before clicking onto them, rather than being linked from here :D Everyone's dysphoria is different and I always try to ensure no reader gets triggered._  
> .  
> .  
>  _ **Do not bind with bandages, it is[very dangerous](https://transmalepride.wixsite.com/jakesspace/post/chest-binding-basics). I included a flashback where Rust remembered doing so, only because it's something I and many other trans men have done when we lack proper information. It's not worth the risk.** Binding with anything other than a safe, reputable binder from [gc2b](https://www.gc2b.co/) (or a small number of other safe brands) puts your ribcage at risk of serious injury, and you at risk of prolonged pain that can prevent binding for weeks/months._


	2. might as well dunk me in a bucket of gin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _This chapter goes out to i_amthatis! I wasn't gonna update further than one chapter but I really love this AU, and I wanna explore some of the stuff you've motivated me to think about, re: how trans!Rust would interact with his dad. I was also inspired by[this page](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/0ce792_f6fbff27618846e7abd3bd76875204e1~mv2.jpg) from Chrysalis: The Journal of Transgressive Gender Identities, featuring vintage trans photography by Loren Cameron. Also, have y'all seen the film [The Sum of Us](https://youtu.be/_LQnKG96uOM?t=1710), made in 1994? The dynamic between Marty and Rust's father is inspired somewhat by the characterisation of a closeted character in that movie. I want to focus on Rust's relationship with his father, but I want to take a look at Marty's response, too._  
> .  
> .  
>  _A warning for slurs in this chapter, but they're not used aggressively. Just as a consequence of internalised homophobia._  
> .  
> .  
>  _I have no idea how long this fic will be! I guess, once I start writing TD fics, it's hard to stop!!_

There was an amber gleam about the room, pillars of noon light drawn horizontally through the air, occasional dust motes swimming like glitter. The walls had once been bare and white as sun-bleached bone, but had since been repainted, a layer of robin’s egg blue to soften the space, make it more homely. A dark, proud cross was still nailed to the wall, its presence hauntingly difficult to explain, but below it was a proper bed. The old stained mattress had been abandoned, thrown away at the dump with a quiet kind of ceremony, an awareness that this was a monumental change in both their lives. The new bed was a double, crisp sheets and a homemade duvet folded with care every morning. Marty kept a vase of flowers on the bedside table, alongside Rust’s brown ashtray.

He had memories of his mother, her hands, the way she’d moved about the house with such ease and patience, smelling of rose soap and herbs. He tried to be like her, tried to forget his father. And Rust made it simpler. The other man was so eager to see Marty transforming, so willing to move with him into their new life. Friendly insults smoothed the way, made the terrain familiar. The banter between them was their lifeline, the thing that kept them able to perform in both worlds.

This night was a peaceful one, their world safe and small. No problems beyond simple ones, concerns they understood. They didn’t have to think about their colleagues, the fact that they needed to take separate cars to work, that this was a secret nobody could ever find out about if they wanted to stay employed. Marty knew what his _friends_ would do to him if they found out he was a homosexual. He knew what Geraci would do.

Rust was laid on his side, one leg extended straight against the mattress, the other bent at the knee, foot against his calf. His hips were canted at an angle, and he leaned on one elbow, posed almost like a Grecian statue. The terrain of his torso was defined and brown, the rise of his sternum framed by puckered scars that extended across his pecs and toward his armpits. A recent trip to the barber had refined him, polished clean the angle of his hairline and the dusting of stubble on his cheeks. A wave of hair dangled down his brow, softening the rigid shape of his forehead. His face was tapered and angular, the bridge of his nose broad. A cigarette was between his lips, a cloud of smoke framing his profile, thickening the air. Sunlight pierced that cloud, turning Rust into a glowing saint. He was flipping through a case file. Completely naked, the angle of his hips tapering down into a thatch of dark hair, he looked more remarkable than Marty could explain with words. Fuck, he wasn’t a poet.

He didn’t have the tools to do Rust justice.

He was watching his partner from the doorway, a beer in each hand, palms wet by the icy condensation. They were settling in for the night, nursing one last drink before sleep. It was an occupational hazard, becoming lovestruck around Rust. The motherfucker was just so magnificent. Marty was still dealing with his own shit, figuring out how to be a closeted homosexual living with his insufferably intelligent and handsome lover–who _also_ happened to be his workmate–so words like _nancy_ and _faggot_ circled round in his mind, barbs directed entirely inward. He didn’t think about Rust in that way. Or himself, in all honesty. They were somebody else’s words. His father’s, mainly.

Rust tilted his chin upward, hooded eyes meeting Marty’s gaze.

“Take a picture,” he said, deadpan, “It’ll last longer.”

Marty smirked. “Smartass,” he countered. His cheeks were warm. He hoped the blush didn’t show.

He strode forward, sat down on their bed. He passed Rust a beer and leaned down, inclining his face toward him. Their lips met in the same way that Marty had seen his parents kiss, brief and familiar, the kind of kiss that married couples exchanged when they had become used to the intimacy of each other’s presence. A lot had changed since their first night together. But not everything; Marty glanced down at the case file in Rust’s long, elegant hands, not bothering to hide his disdain.

“We talked about this.”

Rust hummed noncommittally, lifting his beer and taking a long gulp of it, swinging its base upward. Marty raised an eyebrow, acting as annoyed as he could manage when he was so damn besotted.

“No murder in the bedroom,” he insisted, taking the file in hand and flinging it across the room. It landed in the corner with a papery thud. Rust glanced over at it, unmoved.

“So _forceful_ of you,” Rust remarked blandly.

Marty smacked him on the arm. “Prick.”

“Idiot.”

“Dumbass.”

Rust grinned. Marty grinned back. They kissed again, deeper and slower this time. Rust tasted like beer and cigarettes. There wasn't a TV in the room, no sound to distract from the ones they made. The wet sound of mouths meeting and then parting. The fizz of beer, the clink of glass. Outside, it rained softly, distinct taps of moisture against the window. Everything was slow. Warm.

"Got somethin' to talk to you about," Rust told him.

Marty sat up, leaning against the headboard. His lover, his partner, his friend looked up at him, with an expression that was as close to _beseeching_ as Rustin Cohle ever got. Marty tried not to be nervous, and didn't entirely fail. Maggie had said, _we need to talk,_ many times. That arrangement certainly hadn't ended well.

"Fuck's sake," Rust continued, a smile softening his eyes, "it's nothin' serious. Calm your tits."

"Don't open with that, then," Marty laughed, relieved he was an open book, that he didn't even have the opportunity to stew in his own worries before they were effortlessly dissected. Rust's lethargic eyes saw everything.

Rust glanced down at his beer, rubbing his thumb against the edge of its paper label. He pushed his nail against its corner, peeled it up an inch or so. Had a long drag of his cigarette. Marty frowned; fidgeting like this was decidedly unlike Rust.

"What're you stallin' for? What is it?"

Rust sighed like he was trying to downplay the seriousness of it, like he wanted to mock the very idea of something being wrong.

"Rust. Out with it."

"Dad wants to meet you."

Marty stared at him. And kept staring. Still, the words didn't make sense.

"...Pardon?"

Rust huffed out the hollow echo of a chuckle. "Turns out that old bastard is more clever than I fuckin' give him credit for. Had a phonecall with him. Told him 'bout the cases I'm workin', mentioned you. Went all silent for a while, thoughtful-like. Asked if I've changed again, like I did when I first came out. No point in lyin', was there? So I said, yeah. I'm a homosexual now, too. Ain't that lucky? You had a daughter, now you got a gay son. Turns out he don't give a shit, not really. Just wants to meet my _boyfriend."_

"...Boyfriend?"

"Yeah," Rust said thoughtfully, inhaling some more smoke, breathing it out with a squinted face, "Seemed odd to hear that word on my end, too. Reckon he felt weird sayin' it. Don't think you need to worry 'bout him tryin' to say it again. He's just awkward."

There was no anxiety in Rust's voice. Marty couldn't understand his tone. He sounded affectionate, amused, and only mildly cautious. It was an edge to his voice that Marty had heard only a handful of times before, when Rust had decided to bring his old man up in conversation. It was like he was curious about his father. Like the man was a familiar stranger, a person he'd known all his life, not quite fearing, not quite loving. Marty couldn't understand it. Where Rust had an oddly peaceful, but not close, relationship with the guy who had raised him, Marty felt only fear. He wished he could turn back time, and not have to face this. He wished they could stay here in this room, with no fathers, no bosses, no colleagues, no threats. His throat felt tight.

"...Marty."

He swallowed thickly, trying to breathe. "Yeah."

"You ain't gotta be scared. He's in a home. Harmless. Reckon we're owed some fuckin' time off, now that I mention it, anyway. Might be a nice road trip."

Marty felt his jaw ache from how hard he was gritting his teeth. Rust gazed at him imploringly.

"How can you..." Marty took a quivering breath, trying to calm himself. He put his beer down on the bedside table. "You came out to your father as a transsexual. Now you wanna tell him you're a fa- a homosexual, too. How the fuck are you so calm?"

"My father ain't like your father."

Marty laughed, hating the disbelief and pain of his response, hating that he was so transparently terrified. "All fathers are the fuckin' same when it comes to this queer shit."

"Mine was, at first. But he chose not to be."

"The _fuck_ does that mean, Rust. Help me out here."

Hearing the anxiety in his partner's voice, Rust sat up, movements languid and unhurried, as calm as he always was. He put his beer down and ground his cigarette out in the ashtray, took both Marty's hands. His gaze was steady and true.

"He never beat me," Rust whispered, "He never hurt me. When I told him I was a boy, he took time to deal with it. Went for a fuckin' _long_ walk, left me alone in the house for a whole day. When he came back, he said, I'll treat you like a man, if you earn it. So I did."

Marty almost felt dizzy. "That was it?"

Rust reached up, placed one hand on Marty's cheek. Holding him there, keeping him grounded.

"That was it."

Marty wanted to get up and flee, wanted to escape, needed to breathe, needed space. His heart was racing, his mouth dry. He forced himself to sit still, to stay here, confront this. Be with Rust in the moment.

"But you- you said so much about your dad and you not getting along, that he..."

"He wasn't perfect," Rust scoffed, "Shit, somedays he spoke barely two words to me. It was never about grand gestures with him, Marty. And yeah, he took issue with me bein' what I am, but he dealt with it. He was an apathetic bastard a lot of the time. He ain't gonna get any awards for bein' the world's best parent. But he didn't do any of the shit I know you're imaginin'. Only realised in the past couple years how good a father he actually was, all things considered. Certainly did better than my mother. And in his old age... fuck, he's got soft. Kinda like you."

It was a gentle jab. Marty smiled, the expression tentative and unsteady.

"You don't have to meet him."

Marty swallowed again. He felt like there was a lump getting in the way, and breathing wasn't coming any easier. Rust pulled him into a hug, arms encircling him. Marty still wanted to run, still wanted to escape this. But he held on tight and stayed put.

"Can I think about it?"

Rust smoothed his hair, kissed his head. "Of course."

"Thanks."

"Sure." A pause. "Love you, Marty."

Marty squeezed his eyes shut. "Love you, Rust."


	3. stand naked at the bottom of the cross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Updates may be infrequent, but I love this headcanon, so bear with me! The OC in this chapter is loosely inspired by the fictionalised version of Brandon Teena in the film[Boys Don't Cry](https://youtu.be/mYpUhVvfGeg). I've named my character Billy. He is _not_ an RPF character, he's just _inspired_ by the film. Not the real Brandon. Boys Don't Cry is very contraversial and triggering, so please read a review of it [here](https://transmalepride.wixsite.com/jakesspace/post/ftm-movies-films-and-tv-about-trans-men) before you decide to watch it._  
> .  
> .  
>  _Switching to[Get Behind the Mule](https://youtu.be/l7yuTR8r6QM) by Tom Waits, for titles._  
> .  
> .  
>  _The packer in this chapter is inspired by[this](https://transthetics.com/product/rod-realistic-penis/) product. You can see a demonstration of it [here](https://youtu.be/p59glclW4Vs?t=231). [This](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/0ce792_fafdd073695148afae7586d2106f50c7~mv2.png) is a film still from 3:51... Amazing, right!!_  
> .  
> .  
>  _If you need extra clarification about the prosthetic, I explain more in the comments!_

Rust didn’t bring up his father again, not for a while. He let the dust settle, let panic recede into the depths of Marty’s wounded heart. He didn’t want to force this, though paranoia did whisper possibilities in his ear, the ticking of seconds reminding him of his father’s elderly demise. They probably didn’t have long. His dad was a tough bastard, but nobody lived forever.

In the meantime, life continued.

They moved together in their shared rooms. They hid their relationship from those around them. They embraced behind closed doors, confident in their safety. They worked, they solved cases, they pushed back against the tide of horror and depression that grated against their souls with every fresh victim. They’d both grown up in a world where men didn’t talk about their feelings, where men kept their mouths shut and mourned quietly. And still, they didn’t tend to share emotional shit too often, but they read between the lines. They supported each other with quiet resilience. They allowed each other to be weak. Tired.

Rust liked to touch Marty, liked to hear him keen and curse, liked the way he tasted, liked the salt of his skin and the droplets of sweat that beaded in the glistening hollow of Marty’s throat. Liked to reassure him, soothe him, soften his hesitation. But he wanted more, and he wanted something that he knew was mutually desired. He’d used his hands, fingers curling deep inside Marty, the other man burying his face in the mattress and panting heavily. That had felt like fucking. It _was_ fucking. It wasn’t that Rust was dissatisfied, exactly.

He just really wanted a cock.

Rust decided this one night, when he was bowed over a photocopier, staring with hollow eyes at images of dead girls, illuminated by flashes of light. He wasn’t seeing the horrific shit before him. He disconnected from it. His mind was elsewhere.

He had thought of the crumpled pamphlet he kept stuffed in his shaving kit. Not necessarily hidden, just private. It was faded from the touch of his fingers, the many hours he’d spent holding and re-folding it in moments of absentmindedness. On it had been scrawled the name and address of a guy who could give him what he wanted– at least in part. There was a quiet network of men who were like him, passing precariously in society and favouring safety over exposure. It was a double-edged sword. Lord fucking knew that Rust was glad he could live without revealing his medical history, but sometimes he wished he could more easily meet with his brothers.

The address belonged to a guy named Billy, who made prosthetics in his garage. He was a mechanic by trade. His home doubled as his workplace, which meant he could take cash in hand, work without the oversight of a boss, and be a proud transsexual every day of his life. Rust fucking envied him. Envied the simplicity of his life. Rust knew he was destined for darker things, knew he had a debt to pay, knew the hellish newspaper clippings that most people turned away from were intended for him. He’d never have Billy’s life.

But Billy could give him a cock. At least until surgery was an option.

***

Rust found the driveway easily, followed hand-painted signs advertising a garage mechanic. He rolled up onto the curb, wheels turning slowly, fingers curled loosely around the wheel. One hand dangled down between his spread legs, cigarette held by his thumb and forefinger, and he was slumped back, eyes half-lidded. He was tired from the job, shoulders and hips smarting from the force with which a criminal had tackled him into a brick wall, but eagerness kept him moving forward. He was curious to meet Billy. He didn't quite know what to expect. Further than that, though, he was thrilled that he'd soon be able to stand proud before his male lover, a cock between his legs. He didn't know what he'd so with himself, it'd feel so good. It'd probably be just as amazing as the feeling of exhilaration when he looked down, post-surgery, the landscape of his chest reshaped to match his deepest desires.

Male-to-female transsexuals tended to be more public, thrown into the spotlight in ways Rust knew he'd never have to deal with. He saw them in the newspapers, long-legged and glorious, chins tilted proudly upwards as they weathered the hostility of interview hosts and conservative audiences. Beautiful women, all of them. Campaigners and activists. Models and secretaries. Men like him usually chose a different path. Female-to-male transsexuals disappeared into the fabric of society, fading into crowds. It helped, and it hurt. The reality of becoming your true self. They suffered from, and celebrated, invisibility. Which was why today was all the more special.

The street was quiet and sunlit. The mechanic's place was modest and neat, with a garage that was almost the size of the compact house itself. He kept the garden tidy, his curtains drawn. It was a house you could walk past without even noticing it. Rust lifted a hand to his face, sucked deeply on his cigarette.

 _Clever man,_ he thought.

Being a stealth transsexual meant being quiet. Meek. Unassuming. Attracting attention was the worst thing you could do. Rust had tried to avoid making friends at all costs, partly in an attempt to remain a stranger to those around him. He'd realised, retrospectively, that he'd attracted _more_ attention by being an outcast than he'd have otherwise earned, but he'd made his bed. All he could do was lay in it.

At least he wasn't laying alone, now.

Billy's garage door was rolled up, a Caprice parked in the centre of the concrete space, surrounded by tools and machine parts. Rust could see the young man standing by a table, tinkering with a hunk of metal. He had short hair, swept to the side. He was slender, with small hands, but still masculine in stature. His boots were flecked with paint and oil, the hems of his jeans scuffed. He wore a loose grey tank top, chest solid and flat, the dip of his sleeves revealing a glimpse of textured fabric wrapped tightly against his torso. Bandages. Rust exhaled quietly in the silence of his car. Fuck, he remembered those days. He remembered the pain of binding like that. Surely there were better garments out there now, that could flatten your chest without ruining your ribcage. He was certain there were.

He got out of his truck. His door closed with a squeaking metal bang, and he saw Billy's head turn in his direction. Their eyes met, and Rust wave him a small wave. He didn't miss the tension in Billy's posture, his stance calm but prepared.

"Can I help you?" Billy asked, glancing over at Rust's truck. His voice was even and steady, the obvious absence of hormone therapy doing nothing to detract from his masculinity. He just sounded like a young man. "Looks pretty good."

"Yeah. It is." Rust strode evenly towards him, holding his cigarette up in a questioning gesture. "You mind?"

"Nah," Billy replied carefully, "You can smoke. But if you ain't here 'bout a truck, then what can I do you for?"

"Heard you're the man to see 'bout prosthetics. Special ones."

Billy fell silent at that. He put down the tool and machine part he'd been holding, placing them deliberately on his workbench.

"Now, where'd you hear about that?"

"Grapevine," Rust answered. Still, Billy didn't relax, and seemed to be sizing Rust up for a fight. Rust gave a long sigh, smoke billowing from his mouth. He'd thought this might happen. He took the bottom of his shirt in hand, pulled it upwards to reveal one side of his chest. He watched Billy's eyes travel from the closed circle of his waistband, up past the mess of bullet scars on his ribs, over to the scarring that had been left by the first of his sex change operations.

Immediately, Billy relaxed. A grin bloomed on his face, and for the first time, Rust noticed his overbite. He was handsome, in an endearing, boyish way.

"Well, fuck. 'Scuse me. Didn't clock you." Billy held out a hand, palm small but broad, wrist steady. Rust could see him growing into himself, becoming a strong, self-assured man. When he shook the offered hand, Billy's grip was confident. Rust didn't smile often, but he did now, a warm feeling nestling itself in his heart. He saw himself in this boy.

"Good to meet you, kid," Rust murmured, "Sorry for scarin' you."

"Ah, fuck. No worries. 'Kid', though? Get outta here with that shit." Billy wiped his hands on his jeans, excited now, still beaming widely. "Just let me shut up shop, then you wanna come inside for a smoke? Prefer to keep this behind closed doors. Safety, y'know."

"Sure," Rust replied. He was impressed that Billy had managed to set himself up in this corner of the world. A safe little haven for male transsexuals.

***

They went to the kitchen, which was beige and brown, with garishly patterned linoleum floors, and mustard yellow wallpaper. A series of red containers were lined up on top of the cabinet counter, labelled with _Sugar_ and _Salt_ and other such things. They had clearly been designed with current trends in mind, but now appeared nauseatingly flashy. It was a fucking time capsule of the 70s, the kind of home that would've been very affordable as styles evolved, complete with green checked curtains that managed to clash with every other visible pattern. Rust glanced around, amused.

"Take a seat," Billy told him, gesturing to the metal-and-leather chairs, which were a sickly chestnut colour, "You want coffee?"

Rust hummed in affirmation, lowering himself down, legs long and languid. The chair's frame squeaked beneath his weight, and he suppressed a wince at the ache that pulsed through his injured limbs.

"You get this place cheap, huh?"

Billy laughed, preparing a fresh pot of pitch black caffeine. He responded cheerfully to jabs, which earned him Rust's respect.

"Looks like shit, I know. Nah, I inherited it. Aunt passed away. She left it to me. Was the only one who saw me as a guy, so she gave me a start in life, y'know? I'll always appreciate that. This is my home. Needs redecoratin', but it's mine."

Rust nodded. He kept smoking, and Billy pushed a brown glass ashtray towards him. Like clockwork, Rust's hand drifted down to tap ash into it.

"Parents weren't cool, huh."

It wasn't really a question. Rust spoke the words as gently as he could, but still hated how flat and cold he sounded. Policework had hardened him too damn much. He was more used to talking with suspects than he was normal human beings. Marty knew how to read him, but he was the exception.

Thankfully, Billy took the comment in his stride, shrugging as if he was bored.

"They still ain't cool. Who gives a fuck though, am I right?"

They drank coffee, bitter and strong, flavoured with sugary, thick cream. They talked. The kid was childish at the same time as he was mature and confident, at the perfect age where apathy hadn't yet set in, riding the bliss of his early-transition years. Old enough to drink beer, live alone, and run his own business, not so old that his body creaked from the pressure of bandages. Rust had long wanted to paint Marty, capture the blond man's likeness in thick curves of colour, and he found himself drawn to Billy in a similar way. He couldn't help but feel that they were simply a moment in history, a blip on the flat circle that was time. Would they someday both be grey, with beards and haggard faces, dying as men? Would the new transsexuals remember them? Sitting here, in this kitchen, were they solidified in the legacy of their community? Every sensation seemed so vivid, every shift of Billy's expression laden with meaning. Rust felt tethered to this time, to moments like these. He wondered about the shape Billy's life would take. The victories and sorrows he would encounter. Whether he'd make it. Whether he'd have a pretty wife and a lovely daughter, a white picket fence house like the kind Rust had enjoyed with his own wife, before everything changed.

Marty had turned him into a fucking daydreamer. He'd be annoyed about it if it weren't so fucking lovely.

Billy gave Rust a new cigarette, lit one for himself. They then went back into the garage, where Billy took a locked box down from the shelf. He opened it and revealed a mass of flesh-coloured objects. Rust cleared his throat, and Billy laughed again, cigarette jutting from the corner of his mouth.

"Not somethin' you see every day," he chuckled, "Box full o' dicks."

Rust reached forward, took one of them in hand. It was solid and textured to simulate veins, snaking down the shaft. Billy had even shaped the base to mimic balls.

"First time you had a cock in your hand?"

Rust glared at Billy in dry amusement, pleasantly surprised by the kid's humour.

"Nah."

Billy seemed surprised by that answer. "You're one of those gay transsexuals?"

"Yeah."

"That's swell. Most guys I meet, they're only into chicks."

"Yourself included, I imagine," Rust murmured, turning the prosthetic over in his hand.

"Uh huh. It's the ladies for me." Billy whistled low. "Always loved girls."

"Reckon there's many more like me, kid. We just don't talk 'bout it. It's hard enough bein' one kind of defective, let alone two."

Billy laughed again. He sounded far too empathetic and battle-hardened for his age. "Yeah. I get what you mean."

"This the only kind you got?"

"Nah," Billy dug around in the box, "That one, you cut a hole in your underwear, stick it through there. This one," he held up a shorter alternative which was comprised only of the shaft, "you attach to your body. If you've got any bottom growth, it goes on there. Ain't had that growth myself, but I'm told guys like this kind, if they've got the junk for it. It can just hang from you like a real cock, know what I'm sayin'? Feels good."

He tilted it so that Rust could see the hollow opening at its base. He'd done well to make it look realistic. The head was painted with a light pink blush, the silicone shaft fleshy in consistency. Rust imagined it dangling from the front of his body, tapping against the beginnings of his thighs as he walked. He'd had about an inch of growth, enjoyed touching himself sometimes while getting Marty off. With this... _extension,_ he knew it could only feel more amazing. The thought of himself with a penis, and the knowledge that he could so immediately get his hands on a close reality, thrilled him.

"I'll take both kinds," Rust told him without hesitating, hoping his eagerness didn't show too much.

"Nice," Billy replied happily.

They exchanged cash and goods, Billy wrapping the two prosthetics in newspaper. The resulting silence between them felt immense. Billy, with his head ducked down, hands moving carefully as he concentrated on folding the paper, was shrouded in smoke and mysterious in the dim light of the garage. Rust felt an unbidden sense of sadness, that they should part ways. He wasn't used to giving a fuck. He felt like an old man. Like an awkward father. Strange, that he should empathise with his old man after all this time.

"There's new ways to flatten your chest, y'know," he began, amazed that he was even bothering with small talk, unsure what the hell he was doing, "'Least, I heard that was the case."

Billy sighed. "Yeah, I know."

"Gotta take care of yourself. Otherwise they won't approve surgery. Hard enough to get permission as is."

Billy handed the packages over, looked in Rust's eyes for a long moment.

"...Can I see them, one last time? Your... Your scars."

Rust watched his face, saw desperation and an unnameable urgency in his eyes. Without speaking, Rust tucked one of the packages beneath an arm, held the other. With his spare hand, he lifted his shirt again, saw the boy quiver with a potent mix of jealousy and adoration. Billy extended a hand, palm warm and fragile, fingers touching against puckered skin.

They stood there. Not a word was exchanged. Smoke curled through the air, ash floating downward from the smouldering edge of Billy's cigarette. Rust felt a coiling mess of emotion tighten in his chest, beneath the pads of Billy's tentative fingers.

The boy stepped away from him, and his young face was taut with heavy emotion. Rust lowered his shirt again.

The silence stretched on several seconds longer.

"...You'll get there someday," Rust said. He wasn't sure he could promise any such thing.

Billy nodded, the movements of his head jerky and rushed. He looked like he was about to burst into tears. Rust sighed loudly, frustrated at the hopelessness of this conversation, the ghost of his own dysphoria floating between them.

"Look, kid-"

"Thanks for stoppin' by," Billy whispered, "I'll raise the garage door, let you out. Need to get back to work."

Rust clenched his jaw, but backed off. This was Billy's turf. He had no right to infringe on the young man's pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _Regarding the "defective" comment, that's a reflection of the time, not of Rust's view of himself. Also, the term "sex change" has become outdated now, and the terms "gender affirmation surgery" and "gender reassignment surgery" are more correct. This chapter is an homage to the transsexuals who came before us. Next chapter is gonna be smutty ;-)_  
> 


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